


Live By The Sword

by Kaerith



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Captivity, Flirting, Humor, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, M/M, Rescue, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:21:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26489356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaerith/pseuds/Kaerith
Summary: Nicky feels like he’s the only true human being in the room; he’s the only one shifting with discomfort and wrinkling his nose and feeling so sick at watching what’s going on. “Hey,” he says to the scientists, “Can’t you knock him out while you do that?”“Why should we? We don’t have the budget for sedatives or pain killers.” One of the scientists says blandly, and that makes Nicky feel like he’s been shoved over an abyss. There should be empathy, or professional courtesy, or common decency, but there’s just a blank look of slight annoyance.Instead of killing the doctor like he really wants to, Nicky pulls his silenced handgun from a pocket and shoots the victim in the head. “They’re immortal and I don’t get off on watching people writhe in pain. Even if drugs aren’t in the budget you can bet bullets are."
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 119
Kudos: 1029





	Live By The Sword

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: [Joe/Nicky, met much later while Nicky was working for Merrick](https://theoldguardkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2998.html?thread=814518#cmt814518)

~Nicky~ 

Nicky likes his boss. Keane is former SAS and is even-tempered, quick-thinking, and tends to take ethics into consideration when accepting a job. 

But Nicky has some misgivings about this one. A raid in Paris with this level of weaponry? Grenades?! _Immortals??!!_ Nicky isn’t sure that Keane hasn’t lost his mind. And the rest of the team eye each other wondering the same thing. 

“Video can be messed with,” Nicky says as the guys file out of the conference room at Merrick’s. “I have to do the Occam’s Razor argument. It’s much more likely that Merrick and this Copley guy are manipulating us than there being four ancient immortal warriors.” 

“If they can be killed the job will just be easier,” Keane said. “They went to Sudan to assassinate journalists, Nick, I’m not going to cry for them either way.” Nicky has to shrug and admit to himself that without the immortals angle he wouldn’t be questioning this mission. He knows that it’s spurious of him to fuss over ethics when he is a mercenary, and his general motto of “live by the sword, die by the sword” usually works as a justification, but something about human experimentation makes this job feel wrong. 

Nicky isn’t one of the guys who jumps at the chance to be in the vanguard so he is in the van instead with Copley as the op begins, monitoring the live feeds of the guys doing the infiltration. The two men are taken down easily while they watch a game. The two women are alerted by the gunfire and put up a fight that makes Nicky lean forward in his seat. “Why were they just killing _journalists?_ ” Nick asks. “They look like they could take much harder jobs.” 

“Journalists?” Copley asks, and that sets Nicky’s instincts on edge. Whatever, it’s too late and useless to figure out the lies while half his team is getting butchered with a goddamn axe. Squad 2 is requesting back-up, so Nicky grabs a rifle and leaves the van, using his mental map to pick out an entrance to the dilapidated sanctuary where Smith, Wei, and Espinoza were still trying to fend off the white female. He crouches next to the doorway, preps his rifle, takes a breath, then swivels and props an elbow on a knee to sight the target. 

There are only two of his men still on their feet, and it’s a fucking shit angle, but Nicky gets one bullet in her shoulder then another one, higher up, makes her drop. 

Merrick wanted them alive, but Nicky doesn’t care. If they’re immortal it shouldn’t matter, right? And if they aren’t— well, whoops, sorry. 

Smith and Espinoza are the last men standing and Nicky has to snap at them to secure the woman even if she isn’t breathing, just in case. He then surveys the damage: three men dead, one still groaning, and Fahr is white-faced and trying to tie off her bleeding leg. Half her leg is just _missing_ and she’s muttering in German between hitching little sobs of pain and shock. The floor is wet with blood and gritty concrete flakes crack under his boots as he moves quickly to her side.  


Nicky can’t believe the four targets are alive and hardly the worse for wear when he sees them all in Merrick’s lab four hours later. Copley comes up next to him while he peers through the window at the white coats slicing off their shirts and wiping blood off unmarked skin. 

“What did you mean by journalists?” Copley asks. 

Nicky’s brain is overclocked and his body is exhausted. He doesn’t have any emotions left to care about this, but responds anyway. “These four thought they were going to be executing international journalists for not complying with the government but you lured them into a trap instead.” 

Copley looked grim and thoughtful. “I contacted them to save fictitious girls who had been kidnapped by terrorists. I have never come across them doing any assassination jobs like that.” 

“So they’re good guys?” Nicky said dully, too worn out to feel any guilt or anger or confusion. “Keane said they were a hit team who’d work for whatever paycheck was big enough.” 

“Money was never their goal. They have done unbelievable good for the world.” 

“...So of course big money wants them captured. And why not try to make a fortune from vivisecting them, too.” Nicky is just done with the night. He turns away from the former CIA agent and heads to the elevator to scan his badge and take a bed in the dorm where they’ve been allowed to sleep.  


With more than half their number down, Nicky gets scheduled for the guard rotation despite his rank. It requires him to be in the lab with the assets and ready to take any of the immortals down if they become a threat to Merrick’s people. 

He replaces Oz with an exchange of nods and takes up the man’s position inside the doorway. 

Three of the prisoners are speaking in Vietnamese. It’s a language Nicky doesn’t know to any degree, but their tones don’t make it sound like they’re plotting. The fourth one is the blond man, who is gritting his teeth as two white coats dig into his bowels with a scalpel. The scent of blood and worse fills the room despite the industrial ventilation system, but his fellows hardly give him a glance. When they do they are full of malice, hurt, or disappointment. 

Nicky feels like he’s the only true human being in the room; he’s the only one shifting with discomfort and wrinkling his nose and feeling so goddamn sick at watching what’s going on. 

“Hey,” he says to the scientists, but every single face in the room turns to him with expressions of surprise and disdain. He hates being the focus of attention. “Can’t you knock him out while you do that?” 

“Why should we?” One of the scientists asks blandly, and that makes Nicky feel like he’s been shoved over an abyss. There should be empathy, or professional courtesy, or common fucking decency, but there’s just a blank look of slight annoyance. 

“Because he is obviously _in pain_ ,” Nicky says. Even the blond man himself looks more puzzled at Nicky’s behavior than anything. 

“We don’t have the budget for sedatives or pain killers,” the other scientist says. She is the doctor, Nicky recognizes, the one Merrick put on charge of this whole experimentation phase. “Besides, it will repair the damage quickly.” 

“ _It?_ You realize that he’s a person, don’t you?” 

“Shut your mouth and just do your job,” she says, and turns back to the victim’s body and sighs. “It’s closing up already. We have to start again.” She sticks the knife back into him and Nicky can see the sweat bead on the man’s forehead as he tenses up against the pain. Instead of killing the doctor like he really wants to, Nicky pulls his silenced handgun from a pocket and shoots the victim in the head. He hears a short bark of laughter and clocks it as coming from the other male tied down. The man gives Nicky a wolffish grin. “I would’ve enjoyed doing that myself.” 

Nicky finds this strange because they were teammates, at least, if not friends. A handful of hours ago they had both been watching a match together. He mentally shakes off his incomprehension because it isn’t part of his job to engage with the subjects. 

The blond man revives after the scientists have extracted whatever parts of him they had wanted, and it’s both unnerving and a relief to see him gasp and open his eyes again. “Merci,” the man says with a nod. 

“Were you the one who took me down in the church?” The white woman says abruptly. Her eyes are dark and deep, even across the metres separating them. 

“Yes ma’am,” Nicky says. “You were the one who sliced off my teammate’s leg. And slaughtered at least three others.” 

She just nods and says, “Good shooting,” like it’s an unproblematic compliment for her to give. The other woman says something in Vietnamese that makes the other two laugh and the man also eyes Nicky with a speculation that makes him uncomfortable. 

“Stop engaging the subjects,” the doctor says, sticking her head out of a cubicle to glare at Nicky. 

Nicky mutters a few choice words, pockets his gun, and adjusts his stance. 

“Where are you from?” The bearded man asks in Italian. Nicky refuses to engage in small talk, though. The man continues anyway. “My name is Joe. Let me tell you where I have visited and maybe you will give me a sign if I mention someplace familiar to you.” 

Nicky lets the familiar language into his ears but doesn’t give anything back. Joe persists in talking for longer than Nicky expects, finally quieting when he mentions that he would appreciate some water to drink. Nicky has no orders for that, no idea of where or how he would get something to give him, so he stays in place.  


Nicky gets some answers when Copley invites him out for a drink. He is sure by the man’s demeanour that this isn't a come on-- just business, albeit somewhat illicit and covert, and agrees out of curiosity. 

“The woman with short hair is Andromache the Scythian,” Copley says, tracing the rim of his glass with a finger. “Been around since the times of the ancient Greeks. Next I can figure is the other woman, who is using the name Quynh now. Then Joe, from at least 700 years ago, and Booker first appeared in the very early 1800s.” 

Nicky blinks and tries to take this in. Takes a sip of his own drink. “How do you know this?” 

“They did a job for the CIA a number of years ago. I thought they were too good, too experienced. Looked into their histories and found hints of their existence as a group going back centuries. Photographs, written accounts, oral histories, myths. It was a lot of work.” 

“And they did good, you said.” 

Copley sighed. “A lot of good.” He related some short explanations about how the group had saved people and changed history until Nicky interrupted him. 

“And you wanted them captured and tortured.” 

“My wife died of ALS. Slowly and painfully. There has to be a reason they survive, and maybe Merrick can find out what it is and use it for the good of all of us,” Copley defended. 

Nicky shook his head. “I was in that lab and smelled the contents of Booker’s intestines as he was writhing on the table. The doctors said sedation isn’t in their budget and called him ‘it.’ This is what all your admiration for them gives them? The scientists in there are like Nazis, thinking of them as things— not even animals.” 

“It wasn’t what I intended,” Copley said. 

Nicky wanted to fucking hit him. “You are awfully short-sighted for an intelligence agent. How did you think it would go? Even if Merrick was humane, they are still prisoners with no trial and no rights and no goddamn expiration date. At least we can die and end our captivity, but they can’t.” 

“They will escape eventually,” Copley said, though he avoided Nicky’s gaze. 

“And if they have any sense they will burn Merrick and everything he has gained from them to the ground. They have time to hold grudges and the skills to track down every loose end.” Nicky finished his drink and stood up. “We’re both loose fucking ends. So is my team. Thanks a whole lot for that.”  


~Joe~ 

The Italian man is intriguing. Human. Has what his fellows might consider weaknesses but doesn’t let others' scorn prevent him from expressing them. Empathy, though he chose a fine subject to benefit from that in Booker, the least deserving of mercy of the four of them strapped down in here. 

The Australian guard let his eyes skip over the indignities and hurt the scientists inflicted upon Joe, Booker, Andy, and Quynh and the American one had watched with detached interest, but the Italian had stepped in. 

Andy had complimented his shooting and then Quynh had teased Joe that the man was also the type to shoot Joe in the heart with a love-arrow. Joe hadn’t actually noticed, he had been more distracted by their predicament than eying up their captors. But once Quynh had made that joke Joe had seen it: intelligent eyes, large hands, tall. Filled out his clothes nicely and stood straight. Had fitted his pistol with a silencer in anticipation of the need to use it inside the building. Quiet, thoughtful, capable. Handsome. Really, a couple days of half-hearted torture would be worth it to get this man on a date. But Joe had to focus on the escape part of the plan before he could figure out how he could seduce the man. 

The security men took each of their prisoners to the facilities individually, two guards armed and flanking Quynh, Andy, Joe, and Booker one at a time to a windowless room and letting them use the toilet and shower the best they could with handcuffs. There was nothing within reach during his excursion from the laboratory that would be useful to free his team. If the situation continued without other options, they would decide who should be the one to make a break for it. 

The guards change and the Italian man is back. Quynh is still playing the monolingual game and Joe has his priorities straight, so it’s Andy who gives the man a nod in greeting and asks, in Italian, if there is a name they can call him. 

He hesitates then says, “Sparviero, that’s what my company calls me. Or Hawkeye,” he adds in English, with a shrug. 

“Sniper,” Andy says, guessing but confident. “Beside guns, what do you do?” 

“Guard prisoners,” he says, ending the conversation. He’s too smart to give too much away. 

“You should seduce him,” Quynh says in Vietnamese to Joe. “Use your pretty eyes and lips.” 

“I am not feeling very pretty today, Chị,” Joe says. Booker snickers, and Joe snaps something to shut him up. 

“I think we can turn him,” Andy says. 

“Have le Livre try. Go ahead and suffer some more. See if he will kindly put another bullet in your stupid head.” 

Sparviero doesn’t understand what they’re saying but he does pick up on Joe’s hostility to Booker and almost frowns while he tries to work out why there is the friction between them. 

“Looks like it’s your turn, Joe,” Andy says later, when a cart of sharp instruments is wheeled next to Joe by the lead doctor and one of her lackeys. 

“Make some pleading faces at the man,” Quynh advises. “Maybe he’ll want to put something other than a bullet into you,” she adds, and snickers. 

Joe expresses his (feigned) disappointment at Quynh’s perpetually dirty mind even as he steels himself for more unpleasantness. 

Once the pain starts it isn’t difficult to play up the hurt and fear. It certainly isn’t the worst torture he’s been under, but agony is still agony. He lets tears stand in his eyes and seep out until his eyelashes are wet and bites his lip and manfully withstands nearly fifteen minutes of the scientists digging into his living body before a final glance at Sparviero makes the man clench his jaw and reach for his sidearm.  


~Nicky~ 

The gunshot earns him another round of looks and Nicky grits out at Merrick’s people, “They’re fucking immortal and I don’t get off on watching people writhe in pain. Even if drugs aren’t in the damn budget you can bet bullets are, so get used to it.” 

Unlike the other man, Joe doesn’t stay dead longer than three minutes, so Nicky caps him in the head again. And then again. The white coats are questioning the subjects about their differing revival times, but they don’t get any answers. When they are finally done with Joe, Nicky has shot him five times and is starting to feel bad about it. 

Joe wakes up again and looks relieved to see the doctors gone. He cusses and gestures Nicky over with his head. Nicky’s feeling mildly guilty but not stupid, so he stays in place. Joe turns his head and spits out a bullet. Nicky only realizes what it is by the sound it makes hitting the floor. Joe spits out another one, and then another, until all five have rolled on the floor. 

“I owe you a few,” Joe says, tiredly, in English. “Though my head hurts.” 

Nicky is shaken by what the immortal has just done. What it proves. Nicky can’t stop wondering how many times Joe has been killed and how. The weariness in the lines around Joe’s closed eyes and the concern in his companions’ faces (even the French one, with his and Joe’s obvious animosity) makes Nicky worry that he has done more harm than help. “Should I stop?” 

“I will tell you when it is not needed,” Joe says, slipping back into Nicky’s native tongue. He opens his eyes and manages a smile at Nicky. “You are a most handsome angel of death.” He winks and his smile morphs into a smirk for a second before he heaves out a sigh and lies back with his eyes shut.  


Keane was in Merrick’s pocket. Their company had been contracted long-term. Keane won most of the men over with promises of choppers and weapons and a steady paycheck. Sure, it was mostly security work for Merrick’s corp, but there would still be other ops they could take on. They had the opportunity to wind down if they wanted to. Stop doing special forces shit and sit at a desk watching camera feeds. Wave metal detection wands over businessmen and boffins. Have coffee breaks and chat around the water cooler. 

He pitched this to everyone with a straight face, as if every man and woman he worked with hadn’t turned to combat and stayed in it because they preferred it to civilian life working in an office. It was complete shit, and Nicky didn’t know why he didn’t stand up to quit like Kentucky Ken and Doc and a handful of others. 

...He knew why. It was the same reason he couldn’t watch prison documentaries or those commercials about animal shelters. It was Gio locked up until he bashed his head against a wall and his mother stuck in a hospital as they weakened her with radiation. Nicky couldn’t bear to see living things trapped. And he was going to withstand being on this side of the fight until he could make it right for the four impossible people who seemed like they actually gave a shit about the world and did things to try to make it better. 

Even if Copley was lying or deluded, Nicky would do it. Even if Mac and Oz and Keane were killed he would do it. Live by the sword, die by the sword. And those in Merrick’s employ that lived by the scalpel... he wasn’t a sadist, so a bullet would do just as well.  


Every time Nicky took a shift in the lab, the man who called himself Joe made eyes at him and tried to coax him into conversation. 

"I don't think he's into you, Joe," Booker says one day, showing more annoyance of Joe's persistence than anything Nicky was giving away. 

Nicky was mostly puzzled, and they were alone at the moment so he said, "You're captives and I'm working for your captors." 

Joe just graces him with a sunny grin. "Politics change. Who knows what might be different tomorrow?" 

"It really isn't that unusual," Andy says. "Booker used to eye a woman of the Aufseherinnen when we were fighting the Germans. At least you're a mercenary and not a fanatic." 

Booker looked like he took offense to that. "She must have reminded me of someone," he mutters, and looks at the ceiling. 

"Ah," Joe cuts in, his brown eyes lit with a sparkle. "But our Sparviero is a mercenary with a noble heart. A warrior who only metes out pain to the deserving." 

Nicky makes a rude sound before he composes himself again. "I haven't always had the luxury of being so discriminating." 

"None of us have," Joe says with understanding. "What matters is that one tries." 

The Vietnamese woman smiles at Nicky in a slightly terrifying way and says something to Joe that Nicky is pretty sure indicates her approval at Joe's flirtation. When the blond doctor comes in Nicky doesn't want to say that he is relieved that the conversation is over because she only heralds more pain for the immobilized quartet, but it is something shamefully close.  


Nicky contacted Copley. “You want to help, I need you to cover their escape.” 

The man sounds relieved and eager. “What can I do?” 

“What do you know about the passive security of the building? I’m not a tech guy, but I know I want the cameras off. I could disrupt the grid electricity, but are there backup generators and what do they power? Are the security doors going to lock shut if the power goes out and trap us in there?” 

They nailed out a simple plan. Copley would take care of the surveillance and empty the civilians from the building and Nicky would open an escape route, release the immortals and arm them. They were clever enough to take it from there. 

“It’s going to be obvious that you helped them,” Copley warns. 

“I’ll get out or I’ll be killed or captured,” Nicky says. “I’ve always known it would happen if my line of work. This is a better cause to die for than a lot of other jobs I’ve done.” 

“You would die on this hill?” 

“I don’t fear death most of all,” Nicky says. “I am going to risk imprisonment. I hope I will have to chance to shoot myself before it comes to that.” 

“You’re young,” Copley says. “You shouldn’t be seeking out death.” 

“ _All they that take the sword shall perish with the sword._ Jesus’ words. I want to die making a difference. If these people are what you say they are, is there a better reason to die? But ease your mind; death is always the last option. I don’t think this mission is going to take me down.”  


~Joe~ 

It’s always a brighter day when Sparviero is on duty. Joe greets him with a warm smile even though the doctor is timing how long it takes burns on his belly to heal. He can see the man reel back from the stench of burning flesh. 

“Sorry,” Joe apologizes, lifting his hands and spreading his fingers from where his wrists are strapped down, like any of this is his fault. 

The man takes his place by the door, exchanging no words with the guard he replaces. 

“Tell your boyfriend not to shoot you,” Quynh says, tired from the attentions of the scientists not too long ago. 

“Ah, yes, thank you.” He turns from Quynh to the guard and tells him, in English, “No need for the bullets at this point. I am sure you will be able to determine when one is needed by my manful screams." It's less of a joke to make Sparviero laugh and more of an attempt to steel Joe himself. 

He decides to study the man the best he can around the sadistic doctor's figure. There’s something different about the his gaze today. Sparviero nods but doesn’t say anything. The doctor burns Joe with metal and flame and then acid in larger and larger patches over two hours, and everyone in the room is nauseated but the doctor. Joe keeps trying to give Andy, Quynh, and especially Sparviero reassuring looks between his winces of pain, ignoring Booker entirely even though he is gratifyingly just as tense and outraged on Joe's behalf as the rest of the team. 

Putting up a show of bravery is easier to do when one is attempting to impress a potential lover, but when the doctor retrieves a goddamn blowtorch Joe can’t stop himself from fighting against the restraints. 

“Joe! _Joe!_ ” Andy is trying to get his attention, but Joe’s eyes are fixated on the torch and his thoughts are trapped in his head like his breath is trapped in his throat, and every animal instinct inside of him is screaming that he cannot withstand this. 

A suppressed gunshot cracks the tension and Joe slumps before he even realizes that the bullet wasn’t for him. Sparviero had shot the doctor dead and still stood there with his arm raised as they all took in what he had just done. 

Booker curses. That makes the guard take a deep breath and put his gun away. “You’re going to be in trouble,” Booker says. 

“No talking,” Sparviero snaps back, and he goes to the body and pulls the doctor’s coat up to wrap her shattered head. He drags the corpse off to one of the cubicles then uses a sheet to wipe the spray of blood on the wall into a smear. He doesn’t even bother with the puddle on the floor, but he does kick the torch under a desk. He takes his position like nothing happened, though they can see him pull out his phone and tap at it with his thumb before he pockets it and stands back at attention with only a bit of stress around his eyes. 

“Joe,” Andy says, and Joe meets her gaze. 

“I’m fine now,” he says. “Ávila,” he adds, which explains the flashback that had caused his panic. 

Some people walk by the door, their forms blurred by the thick panels that let light through but maintain privacy, and don’t stop. 

“How can he act like nothing happened?” Quynh says in Vietnamese as usual. 

“I think he has something planned,” Andy responds. “Joe being threatened must have moved up his timetable.” 

Joe conveys his skepticism then switches to Italian to thank him. “I had an especially bad experience with fire, once,” he explains, a bit embarrassed about his behaviour earlier. 

Sparviero side-eyes him and nods slightly, but Joe can see the way his jaw and neck muscles tense then relax and thinks this man understands. 

It’s odd to lie there without the scientists. Andy and Quynh converse sporadically, Booker dozes off, and Joe watches the Italian man. Time stretches, but Sparviero stays tense and ready for something. When an alarm goes off, followed by the flickering and dying of the electric lights and equipment, he moves, signaling them to stay quiet while he opens the door and yells down the hall. “Mac! Oz! What the fuck is happening? What’s the protocol?” There are sounds of confusion but no panic, then the guard’s letting his two buddies into the lab and Joe is thinking that Andy got it wrong but then two quick bullets take down Sparviero’s fellows. 

He goes to Andy. “You’re in charge, right?” He says as he unfastens her left arm and then works on Quynh’s right one. “Copley powered things down. There’s a van by the north exit,” he gestures the direction with his head as he helps Quynh free herself. “Back door is unlocked, keys are under the driver’s seat.” He passes his silenced pistol to Quynh and a couple of clips. Andy has everything undone except her second ankle, and he frees it and loops the strap of his rifle over her neck before she can get off the bed. 

“Free Joe,” Andy orders, “I’ll get Book.” 

Joe sees him up close for the first time when he unbuckles Joe’s left hand. “Why are you helping us?” 

Sparviero’s eyes flick up to meet Joe’s for half a second before he moves to get the waist strap. “Like you said. I’m a mercenary but I like to think I do what is good. This wasn’t good.” 

Joe has freed his right arm and sits up. “You killed your comrades.” 

“They were bastards anyway,” the man mutters, switching to Italian. “There,” he says in English when Joe’s restraints are undone. He moves and retrieves weapons from the dead mercs and tosses one rifle to Joe and then checks another to make sure it’s loaded before he tosses that one to him, too. “Wait,” he adds, ducking into a nook. He’s back in a moment and hands out lab coats to them. “You might be able to blend in with the employees on the stairs,” he says. Booker is on his feet and taking a jacket when the door opens. 

“Nicky—“ 

Their ally turns. “Keane,” he says. “I quit. You’ve sold out.” 

Sparviero, _Nicky_ , casually moves away from the immortals and towards the bodies, drawing Keane’s attention to the carnage and inciting him to pull out his gun. “Did you kill our fucking _brothers,_?” Keane asks in bewilderment. 

“They were assholes,” Nicky says, crossing his arms. 

Andy slams the butt of her rifle into Keane’s head and he drops. “Do you want me to put a bullet in him?” 

There is regret in his face, but he shrugs. “Your choice. I’ll take his gun, though,” he steps forward to match his actions to his words. “If you lead, do you trust me to do sweep? I’ll be in position to hold off pursuit so you can make a run for it.” 

Andy’s jaw is set in a grim line as she nods. “I think you’ve earned our trust. Thanks.” 

Joe is distracted and on the verge of being inappropriately aroused by how this man has just fit himself into their group. He’s cool and quick and ruthless, and his brain works on plans two steps ahead. Quynh hip-checks Joe to get him to focus. 

“Stairs?” Andy asks. 

“Your ten o’clock. Exit, go right, left, you’ll see the sign,” Nicky responds promptly. 

Andy opens the door. “Clear.” They follow her, the fire alarm getting shriller as they navigate the hall to the left and emerge into a lobby by the elevators. Andy puts an ear to the stairway door then opens it. Covers Quynh as she looks down over the railing. 

“Civilians,” Quynh reports. 

They’ve made it two half-flights down and have only gone one floor when there’s gunfire in the stairwell from above. Screams start from the escaping employees below, and Sparviero hisses out, “Stupid and unprofessional!” barely loud enough for Joe to catch, and it makes him laugh with a wild joy that this man is here and real and criticizing his former colleagues’ tactics with actual irritation. 

They get down to the fourth floor before they are stopped by the crush of panicking people clotting the remaining stairs. Andy leads them out of the stairwell and they check windows to see if there are any relatively usable means of egress. Quynh shouts when she finds one with a view above the parking garage, one storey down and with a two-metre gap between the structures. Joe shoots at the glass and then kicks the large shards from the bottom of the frame. “Easy,” he says. “Book, you go first.” 

Booker curls his lip but jumps out and lands in a roll on the asphalt between parked cars. Quynh is getting into position when they hear the pounding of boots. Andy nods to Quynh and she jumps. “Your turn, Joe.” 

Joe looks to Nicky who is pressed with his back next to the open doorway listening for the mercs. “Go ahead, Boss. I want to see if I can convince him to come with us.” 

Andy looks upward in exasperation but says, “Three minutes, and your ass better be in that van,” and she goes after Quynh. 

Joe sidles up to the other side of the doorway from Nicky. _Get going,_ Nicky mouths at him with a jerk of his head toward the window. 

_You first,_ Joe responds with a leer. His refusal makes Nicky glare at him, and Joe thinks that he would be blessed to be glared at by that man every day of his life. 

Nicky moves towards the broken window, though, and sticks his head out to judge the distance. 

“Hawkeye.” It’s a Welsh-accented voice that is unfamiliar to Joe. One of Nicky’s former brothers-in-arms. He steps into the room, so focused on Nicky that he doesn’t notice Joe right there. 

“They got out through here,” Nicky says. “Any of the men out there on the ground?” 

The newcomer raises his rifle. “You’re a goddamn traitor. Tell me why I shouldn’t just shoot you and tell the boss one of the freaks did it?” 

“Because I’m busy shooting you, dickhead,” Joe says, before he pegs the guy in the face as he turns to gawp in surprise. Almost simultaneously Joe gets shot in the ribs, curtesy of another goon striding through the doorway. Nicky takes him down and it looks like the hallway is clear. 

“After you,” Joe says, sweeping an arm toward the window. 

“Crippling fear of heights,” Sparviero deadpans. “Sorry. I’m gonna have to take the stairs.” 

Joe cocks his head and grins. “I was really hoping to have some fun with you.” 

“This wasn’t fun?” Nicky says, with the slightest hint of a smile— the first one Joe has ever seen on his handsome, serious, laser-focused face. 

There is a sound from down the hall, more troops on their way, though Joe doesn’t know how they knew where to find them. 

Nicky tugs at Joe’s arm. “I’ll call you. Your three minutes are ticking down.” He bodily shoves Joe towards the window. 

“You don’t have my number,” Joe chuckles, letting himself be moved. 

“Trust me,” Nicky says, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “I’ll be right behind you.” 

“Hope you’ll appreciate the view,” Joe says, cradling his rifle and setting his toes on the edge of the drop-off. He jumps, and it’s easy, but it fucking _kills_ his wounded ribcage as he rolls, and it takes him a few seconds to get to his hands and knees so he can look up and check on Nicky’s position. 

He’s in the window, facing inside, gun up. There are shots and then Nicky’s falling backwards, limp, and Joe can’t fucking breathe as he scrambles to the edge of the parking structure to look down at the ground where he has fallen and lies broken and unmoving. 

Joe manages to gain his feet then takes off in the direction of where the van should be. He sees Quynh through the passenger window, and hauls open the rear door and pulls himself in. “Go,” he grunts, as he slams the door shut. 

“What about—“ Booker goes silent as he sees Joe’s face. The van starts moving, Andy taking it slow to avoid suspicion. The Merrick employees are in a huge crowd in the streets around the complex, looking annoyed and confused. 

Joe drops from a crouch to his knees and uses a hand to feel the state of his ribs. They’re healing. But he feels an odd weight in the bloodied white lab coat he’s wearing. In the pocket is Nicky’s phone. He holds it in his hand and huffs out a painful, incredulous laugh. 

Quynh has twisted around in her seat. “What?” She asks. 

Joe hold the phone up. “He said he’d call me. I told him he didn’t have my number.” 

“Smooth,” Quynh said, approvingly. “Did he die?” 

Joe nods. 

“Too bad. He would have been fun,” she says before she faces forward again. 

“...I might be able to unlock it,” Booker says tentatively. 

Joe shrugs and tucks it away. “Doesn’t matter now, does it.”  


There’s a reckoning with Booker, and another one with Copley, and Joe decides to give the ladies a few days alone. He’s tempted to go to Italy but goes to Dover instead. He’s never actually spent time there and he is in the mood to walk alone on windy cliffs and watch the waves, because he's a pathetic cliche. He plans on writing some mediocre poetry, getting pissed in a hotel bar, and stumbling back to his room for a few nights until he gets over this regret of Booker’s betrayal and the stolen opportunity of Nicky, the Sparviero. 

He does the mournful and dramatic hike, skips the poetry, and goes straight to a seat at the bar with a pocketful of cash. He’s on his third drink when someone sits a chair over on his right. When Joe drains his glass and raises his head to find the barman he recognizes the man looking at him from not too far away. 

“You never answered my calls, but you did keep my phone,” Nicky says, his lips twitching a bit, no doubt at whatever stupid expression Joe is making. “Made it easy to track you down.” 

“...How?” Is all Joe can think to say, his mind spinning with this revelation. 

“I figured you would know more about it than me,” Nicky says. “I was told you’ve been around much, much longer.” 

Joe gets to his feet and moves closer to examine him. He looks perfect, no sign of the broken bones and bullet wounds that had mangled and bloodied him when Joe left him for dead back in London. “How old are you?” Joe breathes, almost afraid of the answer. 

“Somewhere between 30 and 40,” Nicky says. “Definitely old enough,” he adds archly, running his eyes down and back up Joe’s body. “...It’s weird to see you vertical.” 

“Easy to fix. I have a room upstairs.” 

Nicky licks his lips and then gets to his feet. “Lead the way.”

  


~Nile~ 

It was mind-blowing to look at the variety of faces and wonder about the vast histories each one had seen. 

"Millennia used to pass before we found a new one," Quynh said. "But there are more of us and the time between seems to be speeding up. We found Booker in 1812." 

"No way," Nile said. 

Yeah, I died fighting with Napoleon," Booker added like he wasn't casually name-dropping fucking _Napoleon_. 

"So you two are even older than him," Nile said, knowing that Joe and Nicky were a set, a matched pair who must have been together for centuries. 

"Joe, yes," Quynh said, her face morphing into a smirk. "Nicky was the last before you." 

"When did you first die?" Nile asked Nicky. 

"2019," Nicky said, looking Joe quickly then back at his plate with a fond smile. Nile knew there was a romantic story there. 

"Where?" 

"We met in London," Joe said. "Well, France, actually; he shot Andy in the head without as much as a 'Ciao.'" 

"She had just killed a handful of my men and chopped off someone's leg," Nicky said. "I wasn't going to risk the lives of my other guys just to tip her off that I was there." 

Nile looked to Andy who just shrugged and nodded. "Sound tactics," she said. "Good shooting, too. No smart bullets, either, back then." 

"You killed _Andy?_ " Nile would have never thought this quiet guy who let Joe practically drown him in endearments and skewer him with eye-fucking had been bad-ass enough to take Andy down first thing. "Your _men?_ " 

"What, you think my Nicky was a librarian?" Joe said teasingly. "He was a mercenary. A sniper called Sparviero. Didn't even tell me his real name until he had killed all of us. Repeatedly." 

"What?!" 

"His outfit captured us. All of us," Quynh said. "Put us in a lab and started slicing us up. Sparviero was a prison guard." 

"He killed me first, in the lab," Booker added, almost proudly. 

"Your big head is hard to miss," Nicky muttered, the corners of his lips twitching. 

"Of course, you took forever to get over a gunshot to the head," Joe said. He turned to Nile and pointed at his own head, looking proud. " _Five_ headshots, the first time." 

"You deserved it, looking at me like that," Nicky said. 

"So you tortured them," Nile said to him, requesting clarification. 

"Not him," Joe said. "He was an angel of mercy." 

"Thought I was the angel of death," Nicky countered. 

Joe leaned forward over the table. "When the doctor was preparing to sear me with a blowtorch, Il Sparviero," he made a firing gun gesture with his fingers. "Then he freed us so we could escape and killed his former comrades. I asked him to come with us and he gave me a kiss and shoved me out a third floor window. He was killed before he could get out and I watched him lie dead on the ground below." 

"He cried in the van," Booker said. "Boohoo, I have lost my candle in the darkness." 

"He didn't cry," Andy said. 

"How do you know? You were driving," Quynh said. "Anyway, our sad brother then went to wander the moors alone grieving his loss." 

Joe gave her a rude sign but she just smiled and he took up the narrative. "And then he shows up at a bar, looking like a movie star and begged me to take him to bed and show him all of the physical pleasures that can be known by the human body and the ecstasy that can bind two souls," he finished, looking extremely pleased and satisfied with himself. 

Nile looked at Nicky with a raised eyebrow, waiting for him to tell her the true story when everyone else had run it off the rails. 

"Pretty much," he said with a shrug to her and then a disgustingly soft look at Joe.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a Tumblr; not much there, but I do link some stuff I write that I don’t post here. My blog there is blueskaerith.
> 
> Shout out to the All and More Discord thing (I’m new). I threw some questions out into the void and the void threw back answers and encouragement. <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Live By The Sword](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26557807) by [AerPods (Aer)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aer/pseuds/AerPods)




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